Turkey Day
by Brighid45
Summary: Not part of the Treatment 'verse, this is a sequel to Discipline. It picks up shortly after the end of that story. House and Dana face their first major holiday together and face the question: who's the real turkey at the Thanksgiving table? Set in S6 post-Broken, with some canon and AU elements mixed together. If you're not into bondage, don't bother to read.
1. Chapter 1

_November 14th_

Dana glanced at her watch as she locked the car and turned toward the restaurant. It was a chilly, blustery day, full of grey clouds and a biting wind. Dull brown leaves scattered across the parking lot as she walked to the entrance. Apprehension made her stomach tighten a bit, but she set the feeling aside, as she'd done during the drive to the location. There was no point in anxiety. Better to keep a clear mind and not anticipate trouble.

The interior of the restaurant was quiet and spacious; classical music played softly in the background. The _maitre'd_ greeted her with just the right amount of deference and led her to a table next to one of the tall windows, where Doctor Wilson waited. As she approached he got to his feet, a polite smile in place. "Doctor Gardener," he said, and took her hand for a moment. Dana resisted the urge to give his a hearty shake.

"Doctor Wilson," she said, her tone cool and correct, as he probably expected of her. As they sat down the _maitre'd_ summoned a waiter who helped her with her chair, then offered a wine list. Dana declined and ordered a sparkling water, and Wilson did the same. Once they were alone she said quietly, "This is a lovely choice."

"But you think it's a little over the top for discussing which market to use for Thanksgiving dinner," Wilson's tone was dry, with a faint edge of sarcasm. Dana raised her brows.

"It's a delightful setting to talk about mundane topics. Who says we have to do that in a cafeteria?"

One corner of Wilson's mouth lifted in an almost-smile. "Nicely put."

"Doctor Wilson—"

"Please call me James."

She nodded in acknowledgment. "And I'm Dana. James, I'm not here to analyze your motives. I need your help."

He watched her for a moment as he sipped his Perrier. "House had nothing to offer, I take it."

"Greg suggested I talk with you, as you have better ideas about where to shop."

James made a derisive noise. "He's a total cheapskate, but he knows where to go. He just wanted me to buy you lunch."

Dana felt mild anxiety turn into annoyance. "That's not necessary. I can afford to pay my own way."

James blinked. After a moment he had the grace to look a bit ashamed. "Sorry. I didn't mean . . . sorry."

"James." She waited until he looked up. "There truly is no ulterior motive. I would like your recommendations. So let's start there."

He stared at her. After a moment he smiled slightly—just a little quirk of the lips, but it was genuine this time. Dana caught her breath at the way his expression softened. She knew he was a deeply troubled man who hid his neuroses behind some formidable charm, but this . . . this was a tiny glimpse of someone she'd never met. And then it was gone.

"That's only fair." His tone held a fugitive lilt of humor. "Thanks."

At that point the salads were brought to the table, and talk was suspended for a short time as they put in their orders for the second course. Dana knew James expected her to analyze him; he held up her work between them as a sort of shield, to fend off any insights she might attempt. Therefore she deliberately kept the conversation to the topic at hand.

"I've never made a Thanksgiving dinner," she said to start them off. "I know how to bake a pie and roast a chicken, but not much else." It was a slight exaggeration, but close enough to the truth to work with. James stirred his dressing.

"It's similar to Christmas dinner in other parts of the world. People here tend to customize it to some extent, according to their own ethnic traditions."

Dana took a forkful of greens. _Too much arugula_ , she thought. Aloud she said "Greg mentioned stuffing. And no dry meat."

James nodded. "His aunt never managed a decent meal, at least according to House."

"How difficult is it to roast one?"

"An aunt or a turkey?" James smiled briefly at Dana's chuckle. "About the same as a chicken, it just takes longer. But you'd be expected to make the sides and dessert as well. It's a lot of work. And you won't get any help from House."

Dana chose her words with care. "I'd like to make a pie. Everything else will come from the market."

James nodded. "Good idea. There are a couple of pricey places in Princeton, but the Acme down the street from House's place does a pretty decent dinner for a lot less money." He lifted his fork. "Unless you want to make a big first impression, then I'd go with upscale."

Dana felt the sting of a subtle slap, administered by a master hand. She set the hurt aside. "Thanks. If you could give me some names, I'll check them out."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, until James broke the quiet. "Where are you planning to have dinner?"

"We haven't talked about it yet."

James picked up his glass. "Seems a little pointless to buy food in Princeton if you're staying in Philly."

Dana felt another poke of annoyance, but didn't give in to it. "I'm covering all bases. If Greg wants to spend the weekend at his place, that's where we'll do dinner."

"His kitchen . . ." James gestured with his fork. "Not much to work with for a beginner, even if you are having it brought in."

 _So this is about territorial rights. I thought as much._ Dana briefly considered the option to make every single item on the menu herself just to show this man she could work in a small space, inexperience be damned. "Oh, I don't know." She kept her tone casual. "It seems all right to me."

"Not enough counter space. And that oven hasn't seen a cleaner since it was installed, probably."

She didn't tell him she'd scoured it out some months ago to avoid burning down the apartment the next time she baked cookies. It had taken an entire day and two pairs of rubber gloves to finish the job. "It's nice for two people."

"So it's just you and him for dinner, then." James ate some salad, his gaze on the plate. There was an odd note in his tone, subtle but there all the same—an undercurrent of some emotion Dana couldn't place.

"Do you and Greg spend holidays together?"

"We . . . we've been doing them for some time . . ."

Dana nodded. "All right then."

"I don't want to intrude." James glanced at her, then away.

 _Oh yes you do_ , Dana thought. Aloud she said "If you've both shared holidays, I see no reason to change anything."

"That's . . . very gracious of you."

"Not at all. I'm glad you're Greg's close friend." That at least was not a lie; she knew Greg treasured his relationship with Wilson, and needed it as much as he needed her.

"There aren't many women who would be so accommodating."

Dana held back an impulsive reply as the waiter appeared to take away the salads and offer the second course. When he left she said quietly, "I wouldn't expect the man in my life to give up his friends just because we're living together. That would be unreasonable, and very foolish."

"My ex-wives would not agree." James tasted some of his poached salmon. Again Dana heard that odd edge in his words. She said nothing, just stirred her broccoli soup. "You're not surprised by that."

"Not really, no." She put some toasted walnuts in the soup. "In Western culture, it's fairly normal for society to expect both men and women to focus on their partner once they become an official couple in some way. Friends are usually placed in the background, at least to some extent."

"Actually I meant the comment about ex-wives."

Dana refused to take the bait. "I haven't studied your personal history and don't intend to. I don't vet Greg's friends."

"I see. And you've decided not to go that route as well—I mean, putting friends in the background." The mockery was less subtle now.

"One of the benefits of my trade. The psychotherapy side of it, anyway."

To her secret amusement James looked away. It was clear he was uncomfortable with her lack of anger. "You . . . you're still . . . you and House are still using sex therapy . . .?"

She offered a smile. "How did you find this place? The food is excellent."

"I don't know how you and House get along so well," James said after a brief silence. "You're discreet. He usually isn't."

Dana kept her reply neutral. "The same could be said of your friendship with Greg."

"If you think you comprehend his behavior, I can tell you this much: you don't." James shook his head. "He likes to let people think that. It amuses him."

"Greg respects honesty. If I don't understand something he says or does, I say so."

"And get mocked for it."

"Of course. But that's part of who he is." She drew her phone out of her purse. "If you can give me a few markets to check out, I'll put them on a list."

James sent her a look that was not quite a glare. "You don't want to talk about him."

"Not when he's unable to offer his own opinion, no."

"Loyal as well as discreet. House doesn't deserve you."

Dana glanced at him in surprise. "You—you really think that?"

"It's just a figure of speech." James picked up his glass. "If you're ready for that list I've got a few places you might like."

Later, as she drove to Greg's apartment through the busy streets of Princeton, she went over the conversation. She wasn't surprised to find an element of reciprocal jealousy in her attitude toward James Wilson. The reason why was nothing mysterious; he'd known Greg far longer, had shared more adventures, both good and bad, might even know her man better than she did. She felt . . . inadequate.

"And that is completely ridiculous," she said aloud, as she turned onto Baker street. "This is not a competition, even if Doctor Wilson thinks it is." But it was clear she herself held the same view, and that was a disaster in the making. She would have to choose another mindset—and it would be far more difficult than it sounded. As for the other issue, that subtle undercurrent of disquiet in James's voice, it seemed to involve Greg in some way. She might be able to ask him about it, though it would take some work to get the answers.

The apartment was empty. Greg was still at PPTH, he'd called her earlier that morning to bitch about all the paperwork that kept him chained to his desk. He'd resigned his position as head of the Diagnostics department before his time off had run out; Cuddy had done her best to persuade him to stay but none of her arguments had changed his mind, much to Dana's secret relief. Greg claimed Cuddy had gotten her revenge with reams of legal documents stacked on his desk, an apparent attempt at restriction of his ability to consult anywhere in the Northeast Corridor. Dana had a strong suspicion he was actually holed up in a doctor's lounge somewhere, to scrounge free food and watch tv while he dumped paperwork on his minions one last time. No doubt he'd arrive home sooner or later.

She didn't have to make anything for dinner at least. On Fridays they ordered out, usually pizza or Indian from local places. So Dana took the opportunity to start a fire in the fireplace, and go down the list Wilson had given her. It felt good to shut the curtains against the encroachment of dusk, and curl up on the couch with her laptop and phone.

After some scrutiny of websites and a couple of calls, the best candidate appeared to be the Brick Market, in Hopewell. They sourced local meat and produce, and the pleasant woman who answered the phone said they would be happy to have a dinner order ready the day before Thanksgiving, provided she called in the next week to confirm and pay for it. Dana found the setup reasonable, and started a checklist of items to ask for. They wouldn't need large amounts, but she wanted to have everything Greg would expect.

 _Be honest. You also don't want to look inadequate or lacking in front of James Wilson._ Dana sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. It was silly to feel this way about her lover's best friend, but it was still true for all that. _Choose to set it aside_ , she reminded herself, and knew it would be an ongoing struggle. She wasn't jealous by nature, but Wilson's possessive attitude sparked the same reaction in her.

 _Choice, not reaction_. She stared at the list. The market was only a few miles from Princeton, but an hour away from her place in Philadelphia. She would talk with Greg about whether they should have the dinner here at the apartment.

As she closed down the list, she heard a familiar thump-step outside the door, and then the key in the lock. The anxiety she'd wrestled with all day lifted as she set her laptop aside and got up to meet Greg.


	2. Chapter 2

As this raw, miserable day finally draws to a close, Greg is ready to give up for the rest of the weekend. The damp chill in the air doesn't do his damn leg any good, or improve his temper. He's just emerged from a day crammed full of paperwork filled out (or refused, in some cases) and returned on time, a fact which is usually cause for celebration of some kind, even if it's just the knowledge he won't have to deal with anyone at PPTH for the forseeable future—they're as fed up with him as he is with them, though he did get a farewell of sorts from his team and the new titular head of Diagnostics. Chase had burgers, fries and beer delivered, consumed in the conference room with the blinds drawn. Of course Cuddy had found out about it—someone always blabbed, that was a given-but she'd said nothing, just left them to their feast. Still, by the end of the day his ramped-up pain numbers have taken away even the few modest benefits of breath and life, and the TENS unit doesn't help much either. All he wants is a quiet evening parked in front of the tv with copious amounts of food and alcohol, and his woman next to him.

Gardener's home when he comes in. There's a fire to warm the main room, and she's already on her way to greet him. Her smile is the best thing he's seen all day. She takes his backpack and sets it down, then removes his coat. He watches her while she performs the mundane tasks; when she puts her hand on his hip, he leans down to kiss her. She tastes of coffee and chocolate, and herself. He slips his arms around her, brings her close. They stay that way for a few moments, until another warning spasm from his right thigh makes him wince.

"A bad day," she says softly. "Come sit down."

She helps him to the couch but lets him get comfortable on his own, a silent courtesy he appreciates. Once he's settled in, she hands him her phone. "You order dinner, I'll get the beer," she says, and laughs when he takes her hand and gives the back of it a boisterous smack of a kiss.

"Pizza et cetera," he says, and she nods.

"That's fine. Yuengling or Flying Fish?"

"Yuengling. With a morphine sidecar."

Her smile fades. She gives his fingers a gentle squeeze. Then she's gone. Greg observes her as she walks into the kitchen. Even in a good amount of pain, he can still enjoy the gentle sway of her hips. Hell, he'd have to be dead before he'd take that for granted. But his admiration won't get dinner to the door.

The order is easy to put in, and even better, he can use Gardener's card number. As he finishes up he sees a little note in the corner of the phone screen. Intrigued, he opens it to find what looks like a shopping list. A quick scan reveals she's chosen a place for Thanksgiving dinner—that chichi market in Hopewell Wilson's talked about a couple of times. So they did meet today. Wilson's made noises about it for a week or so; apparently he finally fulfilled his threat.

When Gardener returns with beer in hand, he waits until she sits down and he's had his first taste of brew. Then he says "You and Wilson had lunch."

She glances at the phone and nods, unperturbed; it's clear she doesn't consider this information confidential. Good to know, because he has questions and it'll be easier to get answers if she's not worried about secrets. "Yes, we did."

"Got Thanksgiving all planned out, no doubt."

"He gave me a list of places to look at for dinner." She stretches a bit so that her breasts lift under her sweater, a pleasant action Greg savors almost as much as the beer.

"And that's all." He watches her while he takes another taste. Something about that meeting makes his spidey-sense tingle.

"Yes. I'd like to talk with you about where we decide to spend the holiday, but it can wait. I'd rather hear about your day."

"That's very self-sacrificing of you," he says in pure mockery, just to see how she'll respond. Gardener looks at him.

"We aim to please," she says, and gives him another smile, warm and wry. "How did it go? I presume you found your diagnosis, since you're home."

He's about to answer her when his thigh spasms again, but this time it's a hard contraction that leaves him breathless and light-headed with pain. Gardener is already up and on her way to the bedroom. When she comes back she has the heating pad. She eases his jeans down with his help, removes the TENS unit, then plugs in the pad and places it over the great scar. "You get this started, I'll bring your meds," she says in her quiet way.

"I know what to do!" he snarls. He can't help himself, he has to yell at someone or his head will explode. Gardener says nothing, just nods and gets up. Greg watches her go down the hallway again and feels even more pissed off now, because he just took his frustration out on the one person who actually helps him and doesn't use lectures or patient resignation as methods of control or punishment. He grabs the pad control and sets it on medium as she returns with pill bottles in hand. But she doesn't stop, she heads into the kitchen. A few moments later she is by his side with a bowl of chips and the meds.

"I thought this would taste better with beer than cookies." Her voice is still soft, but she sounds worried now.

He pops the drugs first just on principle but makes sure to take a handful of chips afterward, which awakens his hunger and makes it easier to eat more. Gardener brings him a blanket and pillow, and answers the door for the delivery. The pizza box ends up on her lap atop a folded towel, with the onion rings and fries placed where he can reach them without too much effort. They watch the start of the news while they eat, and the sharp stabs of pain subside to an occasional mutter. The relief is just as delicious as the food. The feel of his lover's warm body next to his helps even more.

"Suck up," he says in the commercial break.

"Ha, you think sweet talk gets you what you want." She snitches an onion ring.

"You know it does," he informs her, and takes an enormous bite of pizza, chews it and swallows loudly.

"How bad are the spasms?"

"I'll deal with it." He'll do his best to avoid a visit to his pain management guy, even though Doctor T is far better than any of the quacks he's been forced to see in the past. It's the principle of the thing; he doesn't want his pain managed, he wants it gone.

Gardener's hand touches his for a moment. "I don't like to see you hurting."

"Me too." He finishes off his beer. "Bet Wilson met you at that upscale place where he takes his first dates to impress them."

She follows the change of subject, though Greg knows they will probably talk about an appointment later, when she thinks he's tired enough to be less resistant. "He did. It was lovely. I got the recipe for the broccoli soup from the _maitre'd_."

He grimaces and eats an onion ring. "Don't make it when I'm around."

"I won't. But it was delicious." She eats the last of her pizza crust and reaches in for another slice.

"He gave you a hard time."

"Actually the _maitre'd_ was quite nice."

Greg rolls his eyes. "I meant Wilson."

Gardener doesn't answer him right away. "I think James is jealous of our relationship."

He catches the hesitation. "There's more."

"Yes." She picks up an onion ring, puts it down. "Something else is going on. Some issue between you and him." She pauses again. "I'm not prying, but if you want to tell me about it—"

"Nope." He feels the old defensiveness rise up, he can't help it. The last thing he wants to talk about is— _that_.

"Ah." Gardener folds up the onion ring and takes a bite.

"Aaaaaand here we go."

"James is used to having you to himself. Now he doesn't, and maybe he's worried that he'll lose you for good if he doesn't insist on maintaining rituals."

"You think he thinks I'll shut him out completely." Greg munches some pepperoni while he feels a profound sense of relief. She doesn't know about what happened, and he has no plans to enlighten her.

"You won't." Gardener eats the rest of the onion ring. "You're not into passive-aggressive revenge. When you want to get back at someone, you just do it. Though you do have your own style."

"But Wilson's paranoid." He picks up another slice. "So he's convinced himself I'm using you to get back at him."

"He asked if we were dining alone on Thanksgiving. Apparently you spend holidays together."

"Nope. Mostly just Christmas. He pays for the Chinese takeout."

Gardener glances at him. "Cheapskate," she says in that dry tone that always amuses him.

Greg shrugs. "Hey, he's the one who wants pork lo mein, not me."

"Of course. So you're saying he exaggerated?"

"Wilson rarely exaggerates. He rearranges the truth to suit his needs." Greg pauses as he takes more onion rings. "He's coming to dinner."

"I just said he would be welcome, if you and he decided—"

"You invited him." Exasperation takes hold. "You said he could spend Thanksgiving with us."

" _No_. That's up to you." Gardener sounds tart now. "It doesn't matter to me one way or the other."

"Liar. You've already turned this into a competition."

"I have not." Now she's annoyed, he can hear it in the way her accent grows a bit stronger. "If I wanted to compete with James I'd make dinner myself. You've told me he's a good cook."

"That he is. And you are as well. It'll be interesting to see how things develop."

"They won't. I'm ordering everything except the pie, so there won't be any reason to compete." Gardener wipes her mouth with a paper napkin and scoots over, sets the pizza box between them, and gets to her feet.

He has to say it. "'Pie' better mean plural and not singular."

"It means none at the moment." She gives him a look and heads into the kitchen.

"Make pecan and pumpkin! None of that mincemeat crap!" he yells after her. There is no answer except the sound of the fridge door as it opens and closes. When she comes out again, she has a beer in hand. Greg waits until she sits down again before he says "That's mine."

Gardener pops the top. She takes a long swallow, and moves it away from him so he can't grab it. "You've had your meds. No more alcohol."

"I make one observation and you turn into a raging bitch." Greg gives her a sidelong glance. To his surprise she looks tired; there are slight smudges under her eyes. And then he remembers. They're just a couple of weeks past Halloween, and the anniversary of her father's death. He almost lost her over this kind of provocation a short time ago; it would be in his best interest to stop. The lesson impressed on him during their breakup is still powerful. The fact that she's only talked about that experience once, and then because he asked her to do so, tells him it's a difficult memory for her.

So he takes her free hand. He says nothing, just clasps her strong, slender fingers in his. Gardener turns her head, looks at him.

"I don't want to push your best friend out of your life," she says after a little silence. " _Mon pere_ did that with _maman_. There was no room for anyone else but him and the music."

"He's using you. No one's as good as Wilson at manipulation." Greg strokes his thumb over her palm. "Don't worry about this stupid dinner. It's not a big deal. Let's get a ham and a case of beer and go to the shore instead."

That makes her laugh, as he intended. He snitches the bottle from her other hand and takes an illicit swallow. She gives him a little token thump with her thumb and forefinger, then moves over a bit and rests her head on his shoulder.

"Would you rather do that? Just—just go somewhere and spend the weekend alone?" She sounds hesitant. This is a big deal for her, even if it isn't for him. Still, he has to be honest.

"As long as I can park my ass in a comfortable spot, drink beer and watch football, I don't care what we do."

"Well, then—why don't we stay here?"

Greg pauses with the bottle to his lips. "You don't want to do Thanksgiving at your place."

"It doesn't matter to me either way, but you're used to having holidays with James here."

Now that's a play from left field he hadn't expected. He sets the bottle down. "That's not necessary."

"I know. But I'd like to." Gardener's hand lies relaxed in his. She's not worried about this at all. "Whatever you decide is fine."

"So if I say no, you won't bring it up in some fight later on."

"I'd rather not fight later on. Or ever, if it's all the same to you."

He can't help but chuckle. "Scheming little wench." He takes another slug of beer. "I'll think about it."

"Good enough." She snuggles in. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh no, you don't get out of it that easily. If we have Thanksgiving here, you and Wilson will be head to head the entire time."

She doesn't answer him right away. "I meant what I said earlier," she says at last. "There's no competition. I won't be cooking anyway."

He finishes the beer and sets the bottle on the floor. Dinner at his place with Wilson is a bad idea, he knows it right from the start, but he won't tell her that or she'll believe it's a knee-jerk reaction and argue with him. "I'll think about it."

Later, when they move to the bedroom, Gardener takes a set of silk ties out of the drawer—the dark blue ones she likes to use on him for some reason. "Uh—man in pain here," Greg says, and tries to sound apprehensive. Actually he kinda likes it when she does this, but he won't let her know if he can help it. "We've got the whole weekend."

She places the ties on the bed and sits down next to him. Her small hand touches his cheek, turns his face toward hers. Her grey eyes hold considerable amusement, but also a love that still astonishes him. "Gregory, do you trust me?"

It always comes down to that question. He wrestles with it, even though he knows the answer. It's the admission that scares him. At last he nods once, and moves his gaze away.

And that is how he ends up spread-eagled in the bed. He's naked of course, and as always, quite comfortable; the ties are loose and his limbs are not pulled taut, Gardener makes sure of that. If he really wanted to, he could free himself with relative ease. But he knows where this is headed, and while the constraint still generates a sort of automatic anxiety, he also enjoys the temporary release of control. This woman will not harm him. And anyway, he has a safe word. If all else fails, he knows she'll honor it.

Gardener sits next to his right leg. She uses lotion warmed in her hand to massage the muscles above and around the great scar, which is hidden by the heating pad. Her fingertips push and release, pull and release; fiery points of pain flare and fade as she works. He watches her, and hopes she'll work on his right shoulder as well; it's bothered him ever since the weather changed from hot and dry to cold and wet . . . Her dark-gold hair is captured in a rough braid, with a few little tendrils free to float around her face; her expression is calm, full of concentration. He catches glimpses of her breasts as her arms move, and he thinks about their fullness cupped in his hands. And of course that leads to other pleasurable thoughts, which brings about the inevitable response. Gardener glances at him, then lower, and smiles.

"Men," she says, but it's not a slap, just an amused acknowledgment.

"Your nipples get hard when you think about banging me."

"True enough. But that also happens when it's cold, or I step out of the shower."

"Me too," he says, just to make her laugh, and she does. The sound is like music. He takes it in, along with the faint fragrance of lavender, clean and crisp; a moment to keep in memory as a little treasure.

"Your shoulder is bothering you." She wipes the lotion from his thigh and brings the heating pad up to cover the sore muscles, then shifts her position so she can work on his upper arm. He has a lovely view of her rack now, and the way the soft light plays over her skin. He makes a noise of protest, and she smiles a little. "Shoulder first," she says. He knows that's why she insisted on tying him up—he would never have gotten any massage worth speaking of if he'd had his way.

"Later," he says. It's not quite a whine. Her smile widens.

"Now. You're usually glad we do things in that order." Her hands are warm and slick. Greg imagines them at work on another part of his anatomy, and groans at the tightness in his balls. Gardener shakes her head at him. "One track mind."

By the time she's done, he's sure he'll explode before he gets any relief. That doesn't happen, at least not this time. There have been some mishaps in the past, but they've learned from them. She unties him, her touch gentle as she loosens the knots so he can slip out, and she helps him into the half-sitting position they've found works best for both of them. With care she straddles him, and rests her weight on her knees. He helps her, his hands on her hips. Soon enough he's inside her, and he cups her breasts as she moves slow, hot and sweet and all his, her beautiful face suffused with pleasure.

Later, after they've settled into a delicious drowsy afterglow, Greg realizes she hasn't said anything about pain management. "You're not nagging me," he mumbles. Gardener shifts a little to face him.

"What do you mean?"

"Haven't seen the PM guy in weeks."

She strokes his sore shoulder, a light, fleeting touch. "Your choice."

He closes one eye. "Saving it for blackmail later on."

" _No._ You're able to make your own decisions. Unless you want me to nag you. I could get out that nice doeskin flogger you like . . ."

"Shut up and go to sleep."

She makes a little derisive noise and trails her finger over his lips, then rests her hand on his hip—a gesture he enjoys, though he'll never say so. He slips into the soft darkness with her quiet breathing to accompany him.


	3. Chapter 3

_(Just a quick note to thank everyone for the wonderful reviews, and that includes the guest reviews to which I can't respond._

 _One guest reviewer asked why House is calling Dana 'Gardener' in this story. My best explanation is that I wrote the first story, Discipline, some time ago-2010-and I didn't really understand House as well as I do now. Well, at least as much as anyone does. Anyway, I understand now that House uses last names for two likely reasons: he was raised by a military dad, and it's a way to create distance. And House is all about keeping distance between himself and other people. Stacy is the only person he calls exclusively by first name, and I think that's fitting since she was his first and best love, IMO. So in this story, it made sense to me that he would call Dana 'Gardener' except in moments when he feels close to her; he loves her, but it's still a new love, and he's still learning to trust her. I'll go back and change the name detail in Discipline eventually, so the two stories match. Thank you for pointing that out to me, it's much appreciated. -Brig)_

 _November 14th_

"Stop picking on my girlfriend."

James didn't bother to take his attention away from the case notes he'd just finished. "I haven't seen Cuddy at all today. I think she's still looking for you. Something about paperwork with ketchup and beer stains on it."

"Har har, you're a big steaming pile of laughs." House perched on the arm of one of the visitor's chairs. "You took Gardener out to lunch and tried to dump a load of guilt into her brain. Not appreciated."

James paused. "Did not."

"Did too. We almost had a fight about it on Friday. If it weren't for my eminent good sense and even temperament, I'd be sleeping on the couch with no nooky to anticipate." House leaned over the desk. "Your attempt to compete with her makes you look petty and foolish."

"I'm not in competition with her or anyone else." James put down his pen and sat back. He stared at House, unsure if he should say anything or not. _Might as well find out one way or the other_. "Did she ask about—about—"

"She asked. I said nothing." House straightened. "Let's keep it that way."

"I don't plan to say anything. Not if—if you don't."

Silence fell for a few moments. Then House spoke again. "You told her we spend all our festive moments together."

James resisted the urge to squirm. "I said we'd been doing holidays for a while now."

"Christmas and the occasional New Year's ball drop. So to speak." House raised his brows. "That is not _all_ holidays, as you implied." He glared at Wilson. "This moment of angst is brought to us courtesy your paranoia about the fact that she and I are spending Thanksgiving at my place."

"That's—I-no!"

House nodded. "Thought so."

"Why bother to interrogate me then, if you've already made up your mind?" James let his exasperation show.

"Doctor Wilson, ready, willing and able, and not just with the nurses," House said. He got to his feet. It took him a bit longer than usual, James noted. "Since you caused discord, you get to buy lunch."

"In case you hadn't noticed, it's one-thirty."

"So it is," House said with false _bonhomie_. "Let's call it the late-bird special."

"I'm eating out today." And with that James made his escape.

He felt somewhat guilty about it later, as he sat in the café that he used now and then; it was convenient to the hospital, and that was about all it had going for it, but it _was_ a diner after all. No point to expect _haute cuisine_. He was fortunate they at least had a grill and it was reasonably clean.

He had to admit his bailout was a bit of an over-reaction. House hadn't been all that obnoxious. Lunch with him was a form of entertainment, even if colored with annoyance. In this case however, he'd face an interrogation about what happened with Doctor Gardener, and he wasn't ready to answer in-depth questions just yet. There was more to it than that, but he refused to think about it right now. Time enough for thought later, when he lay in bed alone and talked to empty air, and waited for replies that never came.

 _Odd_ , he thought as he waited for his order. _I can usually handle House's torture sessions to some extent. Why was this one different?_ He knew the answer in an instant. _Dealing with his girlfriend is . . . weird._ Of course that made no sense whatsoever; he'd done all right with Stacy and the occasional flirtations with Cuddy. So why was this giving him so much trouble?

 _It can't be as simple as the fact that she's a dominatrix_. James sipped his coffee and winced at the harsh taste. He dumped in some illicit sugar and cream—he needed to lose a few pounds, as usual-and considered Dana Gardener. He'd talked to her on several occasions; they weren't friends, but more than acquaintances. She was lovely, both inside and out-a delightful woman. And yet he felt as if he didn't know her at all. Every time he met with her, he felt he was held at arm's length, though with a respectful civility he couldn't fault.

 _Why would she do that?_ He accepted his salad with a nod of thanks. _Haven't I been friendly, welcoming? Willing to share?_ That thought brought him up short. _Wait—House isn't a toy we're fighting over. Is he?_

His phone went off. The ringtone indicated it was his PA, so he answered it. "What's up?"

"Not much, since you decided to eat in lonely splendor." House sounded amused.

James sighed. No doubt House had cajoled Sandy into the use of her phone; the man could be all charm when it suited his purposes. "What do you want?"

"Some lunch. I'm starving."

"No one's stopping you from a trip to the cafeteria—"

"Saying 'trip' to a cripple. You're just mean." There was a hint of a whine in House's voice.

James fought down a laugh. "I didn't—"

"So you refuse to eat lunch with me. Was it something I said, something I did? Damn, it's the mint I left on your pillow this morning. I thought that might be a little impersonal."

"Oh, shut up! I just—I don't feel like enduring the third degree from you over your girlfriend and Thanksgiving, okay?" Exasperation made James's reply more forceful than he'd planned.

"Getting answers to pertinent questions isn't the third degree, it's getting answers." House sighed. "You started this."

"Did not." James winced as a server one booth down dropped a spoon with a loud clatter.

"Did too. Might as well get it over with." There was a pause. "You're at that greasy spoon across from Emergency. Better bring the rubbing alcohol. It's the only substance that reliably kills on surfaces. A swig before eating might be a good idea too."

"Gross," James groaned, but he spoke to dead air. House was on his way, that much was plain.

He arrived a few minutes later, to push through the line at the register and limp over to the booth. Once there, he sprawled in the opposite seat and hung his cane on the edge of the table, angled out so anyone who passed would have trouble getting by. He peered at James's plate. "Rabbit greens again." House shook his head. "You're worse than the food cops at the cafeteria."

"You didn't come here to discuss my eating habits," James said, and tried not to sound annoyed. Apparently he wasn't successful. House gave him a look, brows raised.

"But that's exactly why I'm here."

"This is ridiculous. Thanksgiving is weeks away—"

"Two weeks. You got my free sex option all upset."

James sat up a bit straighter. "I told you, we just talked—"

"If you want to come over for the stupid dinner, then say so. Stop going the long way around, it's not appreciated." House's bright gaze held cool speculation. "This is about more than that, though."

James stared at him. After a moment he gestured at the menu tucked between the ketchup and sugar containers. "Order. Then we'll talk."

"Okey-doke." House didn't even glance at the menu. Instead he flagged down a waitress and spoke without so much as a glance in her direction. "Large Coke, double burger naked, large fries extra crispy." The woman looked at James, who gave a reluctant nod. As she left, House leaned back and looked James over. "Begin."

"Not much to say." Now he regretted his moment of weakness. House snorted.

"Always knew you were a tease." He opened his eyes wide. "Could it be? James Wilson is . . ." He lowered his voice. " . . . _territorial_." He gave a dramatic shudder.

"Knock it off." James felt his face grow warm as a couple of people at a nearby booth glanced at them. "I'm not . . . I'm not jealous."

House tilted his head, all amusement gone now. "So this really is about ousting the competition." James tried to find some way to refute House's statement, but nothing came immediately to mind. "Aaaaand . . . no killer riposte. I am vindicated."

" _No_ —House! I don't—I'm not—"

"It's pointless to try to get rid of her. You're in different categories. She provides sex, therapy and housekeeping. You provide comic relief and reliable loans." House glanced at the counter. "Order up for table four!" he bellowed.

"' _Comic relief'_?" James set down his fork. "I beg your pardon?"

"What a meaningless phrase that is nowadays." House tilted his head. "You're not really begging my pardon, as if you'd get it anyway. You just want me to deny I said what I said."

"I do not want to-to _oust_ your girlfriend! I don't want to do anything except—" James stopped, surprised by what he was about to say. The words trembled on his lips.

"Except to keep things the way they've always been. But neither of us can do that now, can we? Especially since Amber's dead."

" _Don't_." James was a little surprised to hear the anger in his voice; he felt detached, impersonal, as if he listened to someone else speak. "Don't you _dare_ do that, making me wrong for the same damn thing you've done for years!"

"Why Jimmy, you're all het up," House said, his tone mild. "I just can't understand why you're annoyed. It's the truth. You always put such a high value on being honest and open."

James stabbed a forkful of salad, not out of any real desire to eat, but it did provide something to do while he fended off House's accusations. "Only when it's beneficial to the conversation."

"Beneficial to _you_ , you mean."

To James's relief the waitress showed up with House's order. She slapped the hamburger platter down in front of him and placed the soda next to it. House lifted the bun. "I said naked, not loaded with crap. Take this back."

"It's got two pickles on it, big deal," the waitress said. House glared at her.

"Hence _not_ nekkid. Take. It. Back."

The woman grabbed the plate and stalked off. James shook his head. "Why not just dump the pickles and get on with it?" He knew the answer, as he'd asked the same question at different points in their friendship over the years.

"The meat's been polluted with vile juices." House paused. "That sounds like a line from a porno."

"You ought to know, you've memorized most of the dialogue anyway."

"Not hard to do when an entire script consists of two lines." House took the paper off his straw. "Stop giving my main squeeze _agita_."

"I heard you the first time. And the second, and the third." James ate the mouthful of salad.

"And yet I'll probably have to say it again." House looked up as the waitress returned. She offered the plate, one brow raised in challenge. He lifted the bun on the hamburger and peered at the meat. "You just pulled off the pickles." He raised a brow. "Yet another line from a skin flick. I'm on fire today."

"Take it or leave it." She departed for the counter.

"You don't have to get nasty about it!" House yelled after her. He turned back to his plate, picked up the burger, gave it a thorough inspection, pulled off the top patty and dumped it on the tabletop. With a flourish he took a bite of the burger, chewed, swallowed and offered up a loud belch. "Bet this has pink slime in it," he announced.

James snorted. "Bet it's got spit in it. You'll be lucky if it wasn't jerked off on too. You're gonna get me kicked out of here if you keep this up." He used a napkin to pick up the discarded patty and placed it next to his salad.

"Stop griping. You know you thrive on angst." House held up a skinny, anemic french fry. It drooped in a slow, graceless arc. "Extra crispy, my shiny white ass. They're as limp as the cook's dick." James pinched the bridge of his nose, but he couldn't hide a smile. House waggled the fry at him in an accusatory fashion. "See, even you think it's funny."

" _Jesus_ , House." James exhaled and tried not to think of the headache he knew was on the way, despite his reluctant amusement.

"Most people call me God, actually." House downed a third of his Coke and burped again. "Damn diner food."

"Take it to go and leave me in peace. You've said what you wanted to say." James gave up on the salad as a lost cause. The edges of the lettuce were brown anyway.

"And _you_ have weaseled out of a real reply to my statement. But then I'd expect no less from the expert on passive-aggressive maneuvers." House lifted his arm and snapped his fingers. "Hey _garçon_! A little service here!"

"'Passive-aggressive maneuvers'? Because I actually dare to stand up to you, I'm a manipulative jerk?" James took a last sip of tepid coffee and set the cup aside. A bad brew, curdled creamer and artificial sweetener didn't hold much appeal. "Call me all the names you like. I'm not in some insane contest with your dominatrix lover."

House paused. His eyes widened a bit. "Oho," he said after a moment. "So that's it. A large part of it, anyway."

"So _what's_ it?"

"You've got a problem with her line of work," House said in an authoritative tone that set James's teeth on edge. "You believe I've traded you in for a model with more widgets, bells and whistles, which is not accurate. So I'll say this again." He held up two fingers. "You are in one category, she's in another. Therefore, competition is pointless."

The waitress showed up as House lowered his hand. "You do understand _garçon_ is French for boy," she snapped.

"Don't get your point, don't care. Bring me a to-go box."

"Find your own." The woman stalked off. House shrugged and glanced at James before he got to his feet.

"Make your peace with the situation and do it now, as in immediately." He picked up the plate and exited the diner.

It wasn't until some time later, in the middle of a consult, when James realized House had shown him the British equivalent of a middle finger. Anger was followed by resignation, edged with irritation. So, House had warned him off . . . and that meant stealthier means were called for.

"Doctor Wilson, are you all right?" The patient's husband sounded worried. "You look . . . are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," James said automatically, and set the problem aside. He'd think about it later, when he had time to devote his full attention to it.


	4. Chapter 4

_(Many thanks to everyone for the reviews, they're much appreciated as always. And to Cookie, my guest reviewer who apparently doesn't like this story because she feels House is being mean to Wilson: House and Wilson share several traits. Both men are manipulative, secretive, needy and unscrupulous, in their own ways. Wilson's been mean to House on a number of occasions. Casual cruelty happens a lot in this friendship. I try to write both men as I perceived them from watching the show. If you don't like what you read here, please feel free to go read something else. -Brig)_

Dana stared at the computer screen. The scene before her was magnificent: a table set for twelve, with china placements and crystal glassware. Casseroles, vegetables, rolls, and an enormous roasted turkey filled the center, along with several bottles of wine and _aperitifs_ set within easy reach of the diners. It was elegant and assured—everything she knew her dinner would not be.

 _Greg won't care about anything but the food,_ she thought. _Perfection is my way of trying to control something that's making me anxious._ She hesitated, then deleted the photo and went back to her order list. She had another fifteen minutes before her next client arrived-a new patient, someone referred to her for potential sex therapy. She'd kept her word to Greg about using that mode of healing for special cases only, but now and then someone did need other measures.

Her assistant buzzed her just before the top of the hour. "Patient's here, Doctor Gardener," he said. He sounded odd. Dana paused.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes, everything's fine."

"All right, send them in." She made sure her desk was neat and tidy, then got to her feet when the door opened. "Good morning—"

"Yeah, yeah," Greg said, and limped into the office. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, then offered her a wide smile. "Hey Doc. Nice to meet you. Let's get busy."

Dana regarded him for a few moments. Surprise was swamped by exasperation, and then amusement. So, someone else felt insecure too . . . good to know. "Gregory House, I presume? An unusual surname."

"That's _Doctor_ to the likes of you." He folded his arms. "I hear you're into men with big problems. Or they're into you, if you know what I mean." He gave her an exaggerated wink.

"Apparently you over-qualify in that department. If you know what I mean." Dana kept her tone impersonal. "Follow me, please."

She led him into the main room and gestured at the platform. "Go to the middle of the stage and remove your clothes."

Greg did as she instructed without comment. Dana remembered his first visit, when he'd peeled down with great reluctance. His lack of hesitation now was evidence of progress in healing, though she knew it was a provocative action as well. When he stood naked on the stage, she said "And what exactly is the point of all this?"

"In this case deduction is your job, not mine." Greg shifted his weight a bit.

"Are you in pain?"

"Nothing a little slap and tickle wouldn't cure." He offered a smile but his gaze remained keen, watchful. Dana felt again that tug of war between irritation and humor. _Very well_ , she thought. _He's worried about the holiday situation and whatever secret he and Wilson have between them, but doesn't want to come out and say so. He thinks he's clever because he's being obvious about his motives, which should derail my apparently limited capacity for critical thought. We'll see about that._

"When we work together, you will address me as 'my lady'." She waited for the usual grumbling, but Greg just nodded.

"Yes, m'lady." He made it a caress, silky-smooth and soft. Dana narrowed her eyes.

"Go to the cross and wait," she said, and got up to join him.

It didn't take long to put the cuffs in place. Dana had him face out, a position that exposed him in more ways than one. He watched her as she picked up the standing tray, set it beside him. She looked it over, and selected a length of dark blue silk. "Open your mouth," she said, and made it a command. Greg went still. His gaze darted to hers, and she saw a flash of startled alarm before he hid it behind a mocking glance. "Beautiful man," she used a gentler tone, "if you want to stop, show me two fingers on your right hand. We'll use that as your safe word. Show it to me now, so I'll recognize it."

He stared at her. She returned his gaze. After a long silence he made a fist, then straightened his thumb and index finger. Dana nodded. "Very good. Let's begin. Open your mouth please."

"We . . . we need to talk," Greg said. He sounded hesitant, reluctant.

"Indeed we do, but I believe a conventional discussion wouldn't give either one of us the answers we're looking for at the moment." Dana came closer. "You will address me as 'my lady'. I won't tell you again. Now open up." She tapped his bottom lip. Greg kissed her finger, suckled it and stroked her with his tongue as he kept his gaze on hers. Dana moved her finger away and kissed him. She took her time and enjoyed the moment; Greg was a fantastic kisser. And she had to admit she thoroughly enjoyed the sight of an alpha male tied up as he awaited her pleasure.

"I'd be happy to demonstrate more advanced techniques in our bedroom, m'lady," he said softly, when the kiss ended. For answer she held up the length of silk. Greg looked at it, then at her. The usual warm mockery was gone from his gaze, replaced by wariness. "You've got issues too. And you're not above using your authority here to get what you want."

"I have never denied having issues. However, in this case you came to my office as a patient in need of sexual therapy. In this space, I choose the methods I believe will be most effective for my patient. And it is my considered opinion that words will just get in the way right now." Dana kept her tone impersonal. "Either you do as I ask, or we end the session." She tilted her head just a bit. "Your choice."

After another long hesitation, he obeyed. She eased the gag in place and made sure it went securely between his teeth, but wasn't tight or liable to cause obstruction. As she tied the knot, she let her fingers trail over the back of his neck, a caress meant to reassure. He lowered his head a bit and nuzzled her, eyes closed. She put a hand to his cheek. "Thank you," she said, and meant it; she understood how difficult this was for him. But she couldn't resist the opportunity to tease him just a bit. "You look very handsome, you know."

His brows lowered in a thunderous frown, blue eyes on full glare. He growled and tugged at his wrist cuffs. Dana chuckled, unimpressed by this display. She moved away, picked up a flogger and began the session.

She knew what aroused Greg now, what made him moan and twist in his bonds, but didn't destroy the link of trust between them. It was clear the gag disturbed him though; she'd never used one before. She could almost see his brilliant mind pick through her motives letter by letter. In this case, he worked too hard. Her objective was simple, just as she'd said—talk was counterproductive. She would use other means to try to get to the truth, for both of them.

Dana took her time with Greg. She observed how the inability to speak changed his usual method of reciprocation. He used words as a way to charm or trip up others, a lock pick for secrets hidden deep within. Without them he was at her mercy to some extent, and he knew it. He tensed when she drew closer; his gaze never left her, his eyes wide and apprehensive. It wasn't all an act, that much was clear. She kept her touch gentle and didn't tease or force him; she used the flogger to stimulate his senses, and enjoyed the way his body responded and relaxed bit by bit, his head tipped back as she worked him. But she was sure he'd try to take control of the situation soon.

"Mmmmmm . . ." He pushed into his restraints, jerked and went rigid.

"Is it your thigh? Are you in pain?" Dana hesitated. Greg raised his brows and looked at her from under his lashes. "I'm not taking the gag out unless you truly need to be released." He gave a loud sigh and pulled his gaze away—not quite a pout, but close enough to be both cute and sexy. She hid a smile; he would not appreciate another comment from her on how delightful he looked. "All right, let's set things up: nod for yes, shake for no." Greg twitched his hips. "I meant your head. And if you want out, give me the safe sign." He flipped his middle finger at her. Dana chuckled. "That isn't it, so let's begin. I have some questions." Greg rolled his eyes. "You know perfectly well I'll ask so that you can answer, if you wish." He grumbled at her, but he relaxed a bit. Dana put her hand over his heart for a moment, ran a finger down the divide between his pectorals.

"You had at least two main motives for showing up today, didn't you?" Greg shot her a wary glance. "I'm not interested in emotional showdowns, just the truth." He didn't respond. "Okay, I'll presume my hypothesis is correct. The lesser point was the practical joke, so that leaves the main reason." She trailed a gentle fingertip around his left nipple, felt his breath hitch a bit. "You wanted to find out more about my meeting with Wilson. He probably hasn't been forthcoming or you need further details, so you decided to interrogate me on professional territory. It's better than digging for facts at my place or yours, where you'll have a harder time escaping if an argument comes up."

He didn't answer right away. Then he gave one slow nod, his gaze averted from hers. Dana knew he'd allowed her a freebie because she'd guessed correctly, to some extent at least; but even more important, agreement might get him some of the answers _he_ wanted. Now, everything else would cost her. She let go a held breath.

"I'm guessing Wilson denied any sort of angle in meeting with me. He probably said he wasn't envious of our relationship." That earned her a blank stare, but she glimpsed reluctant acknowledgment behind the impassive facade. "I'd say he's not being completely truthful. He's both curious about us, and . . ." She searched for the right words. "He's also fascinated, in a disapproving sort of way. My work as a sex therapist scares but intrigues him. I think he believes I have some sort of sexual hold over you, and that's why you're with me."

Greg quirked an eyebrow and managed a leer despite the gag. Dana chuckled. "Yes, well it's completely mutual." She slid her hand over the spring of his ribs and admired the lean length of him. He'd gained a bit of muscle tone since his pain management regimen now included regular mild exercise at the treatment center's pool. He still had an athlete's build, lean and rangy, with narrow hips and strong shoulders; just right, for her anyway. "Beautiful man." That earned her a grunt and a glower. She chuckled. "No doubt you have a fairly good idea of Wilson's state of mind, since you know him well. But you're not so sure about mine. If I just tell you, you won't believe me because everybody lies. Right so far?" He continued to scowl at her. "Yes or no." She waited. He nodded once. His hands twisted in the cuffs. "And that's partly what has you worried. You're nervous about being stuck between opposing forces. No matter how much I protest and tell you I have no intention of battling with your best friend, you won't believe me because you think it's inevitable."

Greg glared at her. She saw the flare of interest, intrigue, calculation. After a few moments he nodded.

"I'll admit to being anxious about this whole thing. Stupid, but there it is." Greg shook his head. "I know, it's pointless when you've already said this doesn't bother you, but . . . but it bothers me." Dana hesitated; this would be difficult to say for several reasons. "Part of how I show love for people is to care for them. I'd like us to have a good day, and a pleasant dinner. If that means James is part of the proceedings, that's all right with me." She paused again. "But there's more going on here than just problems with jealousy. There's something between you and James, some past event or argument that you're both hiding from me. I don't know why you haven't said anything about it, but it would be immensely helpful if you could do so."

He studied her for a long time. At last he made the sign to end the session. Dana came forward to release the cuffs. Once his hands were free he undid the knot on the gag and pulled it off, hurled it to the floor. Dana knelt to open his ankle cuffs, then moved away to get his cane, only to have his voice stop her.

"Silencing your main squeeze to make excuses for prying into things that are none of your business. You're supposed to be past that kind of cheap tactic." His anger was clear but there was another emotion under it, a dark thread woven through the cold words. Dana didn't move.

"That's one way to look at it."

"It's a pretty damn good way, since it's the truth." Greg moved past her, his limp more pronounced than usual.

"Are you in pain?" Dana started forward.

"Do _not_ coddle me!" He swung around in an awkward fashion, hand on thigh, his expression inimical. "I managed to survive just fine before you came along—" He stopped. Dana's heart sank. She knew this reaction was normal; she'd probed an unhealed wound, and the resultant pain caused both fear and anger. She chose her next words with care.

"You told me just a short time ago that I'd kept a secret from you, about my father's death at Halloween," she said into the silence between them. She drew in a breath. "Now you're doing the same thing, I think."

Greg went still. His fury faded, replaced by a grief so profound it took her breath. Then it was gone, hidden away. He turned back to the chair, gathered his clothing and his cane, and went to the small back room where her clients could dress in private if they wished. Dana watched him go as her concern deepened.

He emerged a short time later, gave her a quick look, and headed for the exit. Dana met him there. Greg paused with his hand on the door. "You'd better stay at your place tonight," he said, and wouldn't look at her.

"I will, if you wish me to. But sooner or later we'll have to talk about this." She hesitated. "If . . . if you can't or won't do so, I'll talk to Wilson, if he's willing. But only if you say it's all right."

Greg didn't answer right away. After a few moments he nodded once, pushed the door open and went into the hallway. Dana watched him retreat. Once he'd gone out into the waiting room, she moved to her office. She had a call to make.


	5. Chapter 5

James pulled the car into a parking spot and checked his GPS once again. He was close to the address—five Palmer Square West. Just a block or so and he'd be at the café.

He stared at his phone and debated the wisdom of this action. Gardener had called him that morning to ask they meet; she'd said little, just the simple comment that it was of vital importance. He didn't think she'd jerk his chain for the hell of it, or to get back at House for some reason; still, the mystery worried him. He didn't like to walk into situations with so little information. And yet he'd been drawn to this meeting, out of idle curiosity if nothing else.

The walk was short, for which he was thankful. While the day was sunny, it was also blustery and chill. His breath streamed behind him in the brisk wind that swept the sidewalks free of both leaves and shoppers.

At least the café was warm. The fragrance of fresh-baked bread and brewed coffee surrounded him as he entered, and made his stomach rumble. He scanned the small space for Gardener. She'd chosen a spot near the window and already had a cup at hand, her laptop open. James approached, still unsure about this entire idea. As he came closer she looked up, saw him and smiled.

"James," she said, and set the laptop aside as she got to her feet. "Good morning. You must be half-frozen. Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee? I was about to get another café au lait and some croissants."

His mouth watered at the thought. "I really shouldn't . . ." A server walked by him with a tray balanced in one hand. It held two plates loaded with what appeared to be chocolate croissants and eclairs. The fragrance alone was enough to add five pounds to his weight. _What the hell, why not,_ he thought, and threw his diet to the metaphorical winds. "Okay, sounds good."

Gardener went to the counter to place their order. James kept an eye on her as he shrugged out of his coat and claimed the seat opposite hers. She chatted and laughed with the young woman as she handed over her cup. It took him a few seconds to realize they spoke in fluent French. It appeared this was a favorite spot, another surprise. She had to know House would question him . . .

Gardener returned a few minutes later with two large cups of creamy coffee and a plate with several croissants. She handed the fresh cup to James, placed the plate between them and sat down. "I love this place," she said, which conformed his suspicion. "It's very much like the little neighborhood _patisserie_ where I grew up." For a moment she looked pensive, almost sad. Then she offered him a warm smile. "We'll talk whenever you're ready, if you're agreeable."

 _Therapist at work_ , he thought, and sipped his coffee with the knowledge that his internal comment was unfair; she was gracious by nature, he did understand that much about her. A moment later he realized the _café au lait_ was delicious, the perfect balance of brew and hot milk. It complemented the almond croissant he'd selected as well. He had to fight not to smack his lips after the first taste. "So . . . what would you like to talk about?"

Gardener set down her cup. "To restate what we agreed on over the phone earlier today, Greg knows we're meeting." Her quiet voice held honesty. "I won't go behind his back or lie to him. I'll also answer any questions he has about what we'll discuss. If you feel this puts you in an awkward position, say so now and we'll keep the conversation to generalities."

James took another bite of croissant to stall for time. "I'm here. That should tell you I've agreed to your conditions," he said with some caution.

"Well, they're not really conditions. They're more of a . . . a statement of purpose. I try to treat Greg the way I like to be treated, even when he's not around." She hesitated. "To come straight to the point, there's something between you and him—some event that's caused you both a great deal of pain. Greg isn't willing or able to talk about it. I was hoping you might be able to tell me what happened."

It was strange how the memories still rushed in at the slightest excuse. James looked away, uncomfortable under Gardener's bright, steady gaze. _Amber would know how to handle this,_ he thought, and wished she sat beside him. _Of course if she was here, there'd be nothing to handle. How ironic._ "I don't . . . don't think I can. Or—or should."

Gardener watched him for a moment. Then she said "All right," and took another croissant. "I wanted to thank you for the recommendation you gave me."

"Recommendation?" He wiped a drop of coffee from his bottom lip.

"The store you mentioned. It will do nicely for Thanksgiving. We'll have a great dinner ready to pick up the day before the holiday."

"Oh. You're—you're welcome." He looked away from her. "So you've made a decision."

"Yes and no." She drank some coffee. "What are your plans, if I may ask?"

"I . . . I don't know if I can talk about it." James heard the words and couldn't believe they'd come from him. "Not—not my plans, I don't have any really. I mean—what's—what's between House and me—"

"All right," she said again when he fell silent. "Do you celebrate Christmas, or just Hanukkah?"

James closed his eyes for a moment. Maybe if he gave her a little information, she'd be satisfied. Even as he thought it, he knew it was a forlorn hope. "There was an accident," he said after a brief silence. "My girlfriend died."

Gardener said nothing. Instead she reached out, put her hand over his for a moment. Her touch was warm, gentle. James felt a sudden and unwelcome sting of tears. He held them back and said nothing.

"Greg told me you left for some months."

James nodded. "After she died . . . I needed a change, something new, a life that wouldn't remind me . . ." He looked down. "Cameron was right. It didn't work."

"Greg was involved in the accident."

"How-how did you . . .?"

Gardener smiled a little, but she looked sad. "You wouldn't have brought it up unless he was part of what happened in some way."

It took him a minute or two to get his thoughts in order. "He was at a bar downtown . . . unusual for him, he's not—not a public drinker, and especially not at that time of day. He—he called me because the bartender took his keys. I was at work, an emergency consult. Amber got the call and went out to bring him home. They ended up on a bus. A garbage truck hit them . . ." He stared at the tabletop. "And the irony is it wasn't the damn accident that killed her. It was amantadine poisoning, she had that bug that was going around . . . It took House a while to figure it out." He glanced up at Gardener. She didn't comment, just waited. "He nearly died himself trying to find the answer, but I didn't see that at the time." _Or care_ , he thought, and knew that wasn't the whole truth. He'd been worried about House, but Amber meant more in that moment of time than anyone else.

"With the deep brain scan, among other things," she said. At his startled glance she went on. "I had access to medical records through Darryl Nolan, with Greg's permission. A DBS is a dangerous procedure, even without a skull fracture."

"He suggested it." James took a sip of coffee. "It was his idea."

"That sounds like something he'd do." Gardener sat back a little. "Do you blame him for what happened?"

"I should." He wanted to, even now. "But . . . I don't."

"And yet somehow you do. Maybe not for this specific event, but in general."

"I don't know," he said after a short silence. "Yes, and no. Maybe." He picked up the last bite of his croissant, set it down again. "It's complicated."

"Very few relationships are simple, though we often tell ourselves differently." Gardener got to her feet. "I'm indulging in another coffee. Would you like a fresh order as well?"

He knew she offered to give him time to recover. "Thanks, I'd like that."

When she returned, James accepted the cup and set it aside to cool a bit. "You're right about relationships, but friendship with House . . ." He sat back. "That was never simple, at least not for me. I think for House, I'm mainly a way to stave off boredom."

Gardener smiled a little. "Partly true, but not the whole story." She paused. "If I may ask, when did you and Greg last talk about what happened?"

James ate the rest of the croissant and took his time. "I'm not sure," he said after he'd washed it down with the fresh coffee. Gardener tilted her head at him. Her gaze held compassion, paired with a sharp comprehension that made him nervous.

"I think you remember exactly when you argued about this. It's been a while, because neither party wants to open up all that pain and anger again. You're afraid of what might happen if you do."

"Maybe it's better if we don't." James tried not to sound bitter. He wasn't sure if he'd succeeded. "Maybe it's better to let it just . . . fade into the background."

"Has it done so to this point? I think not, if your behavior and Greg's is any indication."

"He's perfectly happy to forget about it," James snapped. "It wasn't his girlfriend who got wiped out by a damn garbage truck and a couple of pills!"

"I don't think that's true, that he's deliberately forgotten," Gardener said, still in that quiet tone. "Greg refuses to tell me anything about this. He's even asked me to move back to my place for the time being, because I tried to talk with him about it. From what I can see, he's torn up with grief and anger over what happened. I believe much of his reluctance is because he can't find it in himself to look objectively at his role in the events that took your girlfriend's life. He feels what happened is completely his fault. And he couldn't save her, so he carries a double weight of guilt and helplessness. For a proud, independent man with such a powerfully rational mind, that's a terrible burden."

She was right, James knew she was, but he couldn't bring himself to agree with her. "It's all about him, as usual," he muttered.

"On the contrary, I think this is very much about you. Greg nearly lost your friendship over this. He's frightened that if he opens up the discussion—"

" _Argument._ It was never anything else."

Gardener gave him a shrewd look, but didn't disagree. "He feels if he brings it up, you'll leave for good."

"What difference does that make? He's got you." James stopped, appalled. "I . . . I didn't mean that."

" _Finally_." The word sounded almost like a sigh.

"That's not—I—"

"No, don't deny it. It's the truth."

 _Shit_. James gave a silent groan. Now he'd have to deal with endless questions. "It's—it was a stupid thing to say."

"No, not at all." To his surprise she didn't look angry or even upset. "However, it's not accurate in the least. I am not a substitute for you. No doubt Greg has already told you that, and you chose not to believe him." She munched a bit of croissant, swallowed and picked up her cup. "I think he considers us both to be his best friends, but with different side benefits."

James nearly choked on his coffee. "Side—side benefits?"

"Yes, of course. For my part, it's sex and therapy with some housekeeping and cooking thrown in for good measure. Your list is probably different, unless you're having sex with him as well." She raised her brows and sipped her coffee. James stared at her, speechless.

"Uh— _no_ ," he said at last. Gardener nodded and lowered her gaze, but not before James saw the amusement there. "Oh, good lord," he said in exasperation. "No wonder you two get along so well."

She laughed softly. "Greg must enjoy teasing you."

"I think it's an avocation for him." James paused. "You're charming me."

"If you want to see it that way, I can't stop you."

"You mean you won't." He studied her. "You don't have to, you know. Charm me, I mean."

"I would like us to be friends." She set down her cup. "I've said it before, James. I'm glad you and Greg are, what do young people say nowadays, that you're BFFs." Her faint accent made the slang word sound almost exotic. "Your company is always welcome. If you decide to spend the holiday with us, you would not be a guest."

"I'm not family either."

"Nor am I." She looked at him straight on then. James had never seen such clear grey eyes, as discerning as House's often were, and as direct. "We don't have to be, though. We are what we are, and Greg knows us both. That's good enough, don't you think?"

 _Was_ it good enough? The question persisted as James drove to work, his belly full of illicit but excellent coffee and croissants. He had to face the fact that House was with a significant other once again, and that relegated him to second place. But was that such a bad thing?

"Guess we'll find out at Thanksgiving," he said aloud, and knew it was the outcome Gardener had hoped to achieve.


	6. Chapter 6

_(Many thanks to everyone who's reading the series, and especially those who've taken the time to review. Reviews are the only reward we fic writers get, so we're grateful for them. :) I also have a fic recommendation for you: if you haven't discovered Babalooblue's works, you're in for a treat. Please check out her latest story, Invisible Hour. You'll be very glad you did. -B)_

It's the morning after his practical joke fell flat and he kicked his woman out of his place, and there's no coffee to be had.

Greg gives the cupboard one more look-through, but the spot where Gardener usually keeps the beans is empty. He's next to the fridge, so he can see the shopping list pinned at her eye level with a magnet. 'Coffee' is written on it somewhere, no doubt. But that doesn't help him now, especially as he's no longer working and has no real reason to leave the apartment. Going out just to pick up one thing is a miserable experience. And it's cold and blustery weather again today. His leg aches like a rotten tooth. So there's his choice: make a special trip to the store and suffer elevated pain levels from start to finish, or find some way to get Gardener back so she'll do it.

Of course he knows that's a spurious excuse, but it's the best one he's got at the moment. He limps into the living room, digs in his jacket pocket for his phone. It has just enough charge for him to make a call.

"We're out of coffee," he says when Gardener's cheerful greeting ends. With that he hangs up and heads off to take a long hot shower.

Forty-five minutes later, he checks his phone. It's dead as the proverbial doornail, of course. Disgusted, he is about to toss it on the couch when he remembers Gardener created a dedicated drawer in the bedroom for cords and cables. He checks and sure enough, there's the charger. He plugs in the phone and opens his messages. Nothing, nada, zip, zilch. So he makes another call. "Proving your balls are bigger than mine by ignoring me, _nice_. Now I'll have to suffer because you've decided to go off and sulk."

He might as well have some breakfast and see if there's any tea left. Usually Wilson keeps a box of PG Tips stashed somewhere. It's absolutely vile stuff, but it does tend to wake the dead when brewed full strength. No joy there either though; he finds the canister of frou-frou flower tea Gardener keeps for company, but it's caffeine-free and therefore useless.

The fridge is holds plenty of food, at least. He chooses leftover beef curry and rice because it's quick and easy, and it's less than a week old. The microwave is clean too, so he shoves the food inside, hits the 'reheat' button, and his phone rings. He lets it to go voicemail and waits until his breakfast is ready and he's comfortable on the couch before he listens to the message.

"House? You home? Call me back." Wilson sounds annoyed and apprehensive with it. Greg snorts and dumps the phone, turns on the tv, and grabs the remote. No way will he walk through _that_ minefield. Besides, his silence ensures Wilson will open up and tell all eventually, without any effort on his part.

Two spins through the available programming reveals nothing of interest. He settles for a _Parking Wars_ marathon and settles back to watch. He knows he'll end up asleep, so he pulls the throw over his legs.

Sure enough, two hours later he wakes up when his phone rings again. He makes a grab for it and it disappears between the cushions. He scrabbles to get the stupid thing and hauls it out, just as the call goes to voicemail. It was the generic ringtone, but he's not taking any chances. It turns out to be some administrative assistant minion from Jefferson; a question about paperwork for the first consulting gig he's scored. It's not the first time they've called either. As if he cares. He deletes the call and groans as his leg quivers in a warning spasm. Well, that's that—he couldn't go out now even if he wanted to. He'll spend the rest of the day soaking in the bath, and then ensconced on the couch with the TENS unit cranked up while he keeps his meds handy.

He's on his feet and about to pick up his cane when the doorbell rings. "Fuck," he growls under his breath, stumps to the entrance, unlocks the deadbolt and yanks the door open. " _What?_ "

A young guy blinks at him, startled. "Uh—" He consults a crumpled paper in his hand—"Doctor Gregory House?"

"I don't talk to process servers," Greg snaps, and starts to close the door.

"Hey, it's your grocery order!"

He pauses. "Nope. Not mine."

"Um—here." The kid flaps the paper at him. Greg snatches it and glowers down at the teeny-tiny print. He can make out just enough to see his name at the top, and that there's a bag of coffee on the list, along with eggs, milk and bread. He peers past the paper at the floor. As he expects, there's a recyclable bag filled with the items noted in the order printout. He lifts his glare to the kid, who looks nervous but keeps _shtum_. Wise of him.

"Bring it in," Greg says, and aims his cane at the kitchen. "Through there." The kid lugs the bag into the cooking area, plunks it on the counter, and then hesitates in front of him. "Forget it. I know the perpetrator of this prank and she's already tucked some bills in your g-string. Get lost."

Junior bumbles off and Greg slams the door shut on him, then limps back to the kitchen. He hauls out the coffee first and looks it over. It's the brand he and Gardener often buy, but it's the decaf version. Exasperation wars with reluctant amusement. "Bitch," he mutters, but a slight smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

A short time later, back on the couch with mug in hand, he makes another call to Gardener. "No caffeine, no cookies, no naked woman at my side . . . pathetic." He takes a loud slurp of joe. "You'll be sorry you didn't buy me high-octane."

By the time evening's arrived, he has to admit he's worried. Gardener still hasn't returned his call. Her only answer has been a literal one, with a little slap in it. Of course he did send her away, and now if he wants her back he'll have to ask. It's clear provocation won't work—or if it does, he'll blow things up the way he did at Halloween.

At ten p.m. he calls her one last time. "Gardener . . . the door's unlocked." And he leaves it at that. He makes another leftover dinner, a plate piled with meatloaf and mashed potatoes this time, and chases it with two beers. An hour later he's on a third brew when he hears the snick of the bottom deadbolt and the latch's rattle, and then Gardener's in the doorway with her overnight bag in hand. In silence she enters, shuts the door behind her, slow and quiet, and stands there. She looks tired, her clothes a bit rumpled, and it occurs to him she's worked late.

"Make up your mind," he says at last, when she doesn't move.

"I met with Wilson." Her soft voice is cool, neutral.

"Good for you. I have no urge to chew over your _tete a tete_ with the yenta of PPTH." A lie if ever there was one, but qualified; he wants to get information without giving out any in return, if he can manage it. Even as he thinks it, he knows it's a long shot. Gardener's good at her job.

"Why were you drinking at a bar the day of the bus accident?"

Greg feels the shock hit him, but it's as if he stands outside his body; after the initial sharp pain the blow is distant, muffled. His mind wheels in a thousand different directions at once. "I drank every day back then," he says, just for something to say. "Not like now, when it's every other day."

"I'm asking about that instance in particular." Her gaze is steady, measuring. "Why did you do it?"

"Doesn't make any difference now."

"I think it does."

Silence falls. Greg tries for something, any lie he can give that will satisfy her, but of course his clever brain refuses to oblige for once. Gardener gives a small sigh and turns away. It's clear she's about to leave.

"Wait! _Wait_ ," he says, desperate to keep her with him. "Wilson—Wilson must have told you."

She doesn't move. "He said it was unusual behavior for you, but that's all. You're a creature of habit in your personal life, to say the least. For you to break your routine in such a public way indicates something upset you greatly."

He can't mess with her any longer, she'll leave if he keeps it up. "Mom called." Maybe he can get away with a half-truth. "She . . . she annoyed me. Pissed me off."

After a moment Gardener turns back. "What did she tell you?"

He picks up his beer, takes a swallow, grimaces because it's warm and flat. "Nothing. Gossip. Inconsequential chit-chat."

"Gregory." She says his name with such gentleness. "Do you trust me?"

He finishes the beer, gets to his feet. "You want one?" He doesn't look at her.

"Either you trust me or you don't."

" _Yes_ , dammit! I trust you!"

"Then answer my question." She is inexorable. He has no choice, he'll have to tell her, but she'll get only the minimal amount needed to shut her up.

"She told me . . . Dad had colon cancer. It had metastasized. He had a few weeks left, maybe two months at the most. That's all." The old pain has picked the lock of the strongbox where he keeps it, and creeps into his head, his heart. He doesn't want it, it's pointless and stupid to feel grief for someone he hated. He pushes it away.

Gardener doesn't speak at first. Then, "Did she ask you to visit your father before he died?"

"No." It comes out as a croak. He would take it back if he could. She doesn't need to know this. It's enough that he does.

"Why?"

"Why the _fuck_ do you think?" he snarls, furious now at the way she continues to prod him. "She didn't want me to upset her husband. How embarrassing would it be to have one last battle in the hospital, where everyone could see and hear it! No more perfect family, no more denial!"

"Is that the reason she gave you?" Gardener watches him, her expression impassive.

"She-she didn't have to say anything. I just knew!" The pain lodges in his chest where he can't get rid of it. It restricts his breath, his heartbeat.

"You're a great one for assuming things when it comes to how others feel about you," Gardener says it without a single molecule of amusement. "It's caused many problems, but I'd say this qualifies as one of the biggest you've faced."

"She didn't want me there." It comes out as a defiant mutter.

"I think she did. But she wanted you to ask."

"So it's my fault—"

" _No_." Gardener drops her bag on the floor and moves toward him. She stops a couple of feet away. "This is not about laying blame. You might have had a tough relationship with your dad—"

"He wasn't my dad." Now the truth is out. He'll have to tell her everything and she'll know he really is a bastard. He flinches away from the thought. No doubt he's lost her for good this time.

She comes forward and slips her arms around him before he can draw back. Her cheek rests above his heart. She doesn't say anything; he stands in the warm circle of her embrace, stiff and reluctant at first, and then his arms come up to hold her too.

After a time they move down the hall, one slow step after another. When they reach the bedroom his face is wet for some reason, and he can't seem to let go of Dana. She doesn't push him away; instead she helps him sit, and then they lie next to each other. He hangs on like a drowning man, ashamed of his actions but unable to stop them.

"Tell me," she says after a time. "John House wasn't your biological father. How did you find out?"

Word by word the whole sorry tale is revealed: his suspicions and the inevitable confrontation, the notes under the door for an entire summer, the savage, relentless battle of wills throughout high school and college, the silence when he moved away from home. She says nothing, just listens.

"I hated him," Greg says at the end. "Still do."

"But you loved him first. And he loved you, in his own way." She is silent for a moment. "That makes it much worse when you hate them later, because the love is still mixed in."

He tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear. "Your father too."

"Oh yes. _Mon pere_ was a deeply flawed parent. We were expected to serve his talent above everything else, any other need or desire of our own, at all times. He was remorseless." She sighs, a soft, sad sound. "It killed _maman_. I haven't forgiven him for that. Or her either."

"You think she was at fault as well."

"I do." She rubs his chest, slow and tender. "She could have put a stop to it, told him off when he was being unreasonable or selfish. Instead she just gave him what he wanted, so that he took more and more. Finally she had nothing left to give."

Silence follows. After a while Greg feels Dana relax, as her breath grows more even and deep; she's drifted into sleep. He eases away from her, gets to his feet, and limps off to the bathroom to clean up, undress and grab his bathrobe from the hook on the back of the door. Upon his return he takes the spare blanket from the bottom of the bed and unfolds it, resumes his place next to his sleeping woman, and drapes the covering over both of them. He slips into the darkness with her warmth to give him comfort.


	7. Chapter 7

_Thanksgiving Day_

It's a dark, dreary afternoon. Gusts of wind rattle the window sashes, accompanied by spatters of rain; Baker Street is deserted, without the usual foot traffic of students, shoppers or day trippers. It's cold, mean and miserable outside, but inside the apartment it's a different story. A fire burns bright and cheerful in the fireplace, and lamps fill the living room with soft warm light. The rich fragrance of roast turkey and pie still hangs in the air, and the football game on the television adds a muted buzz of intermittent commentary. Wilson's here too, his presence as necessary to proceedings as stuffing and cranberry relish. It's a holiday set up right and proper, classic in every sense—but the best part of it is the woman at Greg's side, curled up on the couch. She has a slice of pumpkin pie, and takes a bite of it every now and then. Gardener hasn't abandoned her pattern of slow eating; she enjoys each mouthful.

"Don't know how you can have it naked," Greg says, and stuffs in an enormous bite of her apple-cherry cobbler, piled high with whipped cream.

"Not everyone empties an entire can of Reddi-Wip on one slice," Wilson says from the depths of the recliner. He sips his beer and offers a half-smile, his dark eyes bright with amusement. "Your cholesterol stats must be something to see in January."

"Never had a problem." Greg licks his fork and steals a chunk of pie from Gardener's plate. "Fast metabolism and clear arteries courtesy my real dad, whoever he is. Mom looks at food and gains five pounds. You'd know all about that."

"I don't have the slightest clue about your mother's weight problems." Wilson finishes his beer and sets the bottle on the floor beside his chair. "Dana, I'd—I'd like your recipe for the apple-cherry cobbler."

"You mean the failed pie." Greg thieves another bite. "No flaky crust, no cut-out leaves arranged artistically around the rim . . . such a disappointment."

"Which is why you ate half of it," Gardener says. She hands him her plate and picks up her glass of wine. "My apologies for ruining your day." The wry note in her voice tells him she's not really offended. A little part of him is relieved, though he'd never admit it. They are both still raw from the emotion expended the night before, but deep inside he feels a quiet relief, as if his course has been altered by the most gentle of hands—just enough to set him right without causing more pain or removal of his own choices. "Sorry it's such a disappointment."

"It was a massive sacrifice on my part, you know. If I hadn't expressed enthusiasm in some way you'd be mad at me."

"It's not a failure," Wilson says. He wedges his shoulders into the depths of the recliner and yawns. "It's delicious."

"Suckup," Greg informs him, and polishes off Gardener's pie, then dumps the plate on the coffee table. "Just for that you can do the dishes."

"Later." Gardener snuggles in next to Greg and rests her head on his shoulder. He can smell shampoo and her own scent, with a little hit of the spices Wilson used in his pie. "None of us has to be anywhere."

"Well said." Wilson tips his head back. "What's the score?"

Gardener squints at the screen. "Fourteen to seven. It looks as if the Lion team is losing."

"That figures."

"So change the channel, you have the remote." Greg slips an arm behind Gardener and brings her in close. His hand cups her breast. "Put it on some chick flick. You know you want to."

"Oh, shut up. I get enough of that crap from my patients." Wilson closes his eyes. Bit by bit his breathing deepens, and his mouth opens just a bit. Another silence, and then a faint, delicate snore issues forth.

"A new record," Greg keeps his voice soft and low. "Usually it takes ten minutes." He drops a kiss on Gardener's head. "Now's our chance."

"Hmm?" She's half-asleep herself. When she looks up at him, she blinks like a drowsy little owl. Greg feels an odd expansion in the area of his heart, but he ignores it.

"Let's go make out," he whispers. She doesn't get it at first—and then those sleepy eyes widen. She darts a glance at Wilson, who is down for the count. When she looks back at Greg, she gives him a slow smile that makes the corners of his own mouth lift in response.

In near-silence they manage to get off the couch. It makes his leg hurt like hell, but it'll be worth the pain. They move out of the living room and sneak down the hall to the bedroom, make a big deal out of how they shut the door in near silence. Gardener moves to the night stand and turns on the lamp. Without a word she removes her clothing, until she wears only the golden light. She sits on the bed and watches as he gestures at the stand. "Ties," he whispers. But he isn't the one who will be bound and helpless this time.

She submits to his direction without hesitation, even when he binds her hands together above her head and fastens them to the bedframe. When he taps her bottom lip with his finger and shows her the extra tie, she gives him a direct look for a few moments. She knows what he wants, and why; it's one of the reasons he stays with her, that quick intelligence that requires no explanations. She opens her mouth and accepts the gag, doesn't resist when he eases her head down on the pillows.

It's almost impossible for him to make love to her in the missionary position; despite the improvements provided by a good pain management regimen, exercise and the help of the TENS unit, a butchered thigh is a butchered thigh. But there are other pathways to orgasm, and if they take time to accomplish, so much the better.

So Greg lies beside her, puts his hand to her cheek, and turns her face to his. In the soft, shadowed light her gaze is steady and open. The trust he sees there almost undoes him. She has so many reasons to walk away, and yet here she is.

There is a part of him, and not a small part either, that wants revenge for the session where she gagged him. His intellect tells him it was a legitimate strategy, if a desperate one; she is within her rights to use any technique she thinks will work to help him find healing. He signed a contractual agreement to that end some time ago. And yet he still feels humiliated, betrayed. It's the reason why she wears a gag now—he needs reciprocity. He knows she knows this. While she offers him trust, she's also waiting to see how far he'll go to get some of his own back. No matter what he does, they'll have to talk about it later. But for the moment, he has her where he wants her. He'll take his lumps afterward, unless he can out-maneuver her.

He runs his hand over the rounded curve of her hip and she moves under his touch as she rises to meet him. Just because he can, he indulges in a favorite pastime and suckles her nipples, feels them swell as she moans. The perfume of her body fills him; he tastes her, lets his hand slip down to her belly, to rest just above the join of her thighs. She sighs and twists a little in her bonds, but she doesn't beg—not yet. Greg put his lips to her ear, brushes it to make her shiver. "I could leave you here," he whispers. "Just walk out the door and go back to the game." He slides his hand lower, uses his index finger and thumb to part her labia. Her thigh muscles tense, relax. "I could take you to the edge without going any further, and you'd have no say in what happens next." He circles her clitoris, feels it pulse and swell. When he looks at Gardener again, she's watching him. As their gazes meet, she waits a moment, then closes her eyes and goes still. He can sense no anger or anxiety in her; she lies passive, ready for whatever he decides. _I will abide by your choice_ , she tells him in the only way she can. Of course that doesn't mean there won't be consequences for actions taken, but she's still left it up to him when she could fight or demand her freedom.

It strikes him then that she didn't ask for a safe word, standard procedure for any type of session like this. Along with that knowledge comes another insight: she knew all along what he'd do. She understands him better than he does himself. "You little minx," he says, torn between exasperation and laughter. She doesn't move, but under the gag he sees her smile. That peculiar feeling in his chest returns. Even though he won't put a name to it, he knows what it is now.

So Greg lifts his hands, reaches around to untie the gag. When it's gone he leans in and presses a kiss to both of the faint pink marks at the corners of Dana's mouth. Then he attends to business farther down, uses his touch and his knowledge of muscle and nerve and bone to bring her to the edge several times until she goes over into orgasm. She arches under his ministrations, shudders and gives a soundless cry before she falls back, eyes wide open now, unfocused with pleasure. He feels her vagina quiver in a series of little rhythmic contractions, a sign he's done his work well. The knowledge is pleasant, though he needs some relief of his own.

He releases her from the ties—feet first, then her hands. He massages her ankles and wrists gently, taking his time while she basks in afterglow. Then he shucks off his clothes, removes the TENS unit and perches next to her. When Gardener looks up at him, he lifts his brows and gives her a slight smile.

They make love in silence, a challenge that adds to the intensity and brings him to release. At the end they hang onto each other, sweaty, out of breath, replete.

"We need a shower," Greg says when he can speak. Gardener touches his cheek but says nothing. " _Jesus_. Talk already," he growls. His response elicits a smile.

"I'd be very surprised if James is still in residence. He's not exactly naïve." Her voice is husky, her accent a bit more pronounced; it's sexy as hell. Greg tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

"If so, he'll get to be all disapproving and superior for a couple of weeks. Wilson lives for that kind of thing."

"That sounds like experience speaking." Gardener sits up a bit. "Let's find out."

They shower together, a pleasant mutual benefit, and get dressed. Then they sneak out into the hallway and tiptoe to the living room like two guilty teenagers, to find everything much as they left it. The fire's died down a bit and the game's ended but Wilson's still asleep, his head tilted to rest against the recliner's cushions. Without a word they resume their places on the couch. Greg picks up the remote, checks the online schedule, chooses another game and turns the volume up a few levels. The crowd roars as a touchdown is made, and Wilson jerks awake. He blinks and sits up, yawns, checks his watch.

"Sorry about that," he says, and looks a bit sheepish. "Ate too much and drifted off."

"About time you woke up," Greg says. "Make yourself useful and bring more pie. I'll take two slices of pumpkin. And a can of whipped cream."

They munch leftovers and watch whatever's on tv for the rest of the afternoon, with sparks of conversation now and then—undemanding and comfortable, the way it always is when Wilson's there. By the time he's ready to leave, the weather has settled down to a strong, steady wind with a sprinkle of cold rain thrown in now and then. Gardener packs up a fair amount of the food for him to take home, as well as a bottle of wine. When Wilson gets to the door he glances at Gardener, then at Greg, and offers a tiny smile.

"Bring a date next time." Greg looks down his nose at Wilson, who pauses before he nods. Then he salutes them both and heads into the dark of early evening with bags in hand.


	8. Chapter 8

_(This is the final chapter of the story. Many thanks to everyone who read and/or reviewed, as always it's much appreciated. There will be more stories in the Discipline 'verse coming up soon. Enjoy and see you soon-Brig)_

"Huh." Greg closes the door on his friend. "He knew all along."

"We weren't exactly subtle." Gardener picks up plates and silverware and takes them into the kitchen just as the lights flicker. She comes back with a box of long matches. In silence she puts a couple of smaller logs on the fire, then lights a few candles around the room before she returns to Greg's side. "Just in case," she says, and settles in next to him.

"So efficient," he mocks, but he lets her take his hand.

"We have unfinished business." Gardener smiles at his groan. "You knew we'd have to talk."

"Can't it wait?" It's not quite a whine. "We talked about my dad and Wilson's dead girlfriend, that should be enough for the next couple of years at least."

"It doesn't work that way, as you well know." She gives his hand a little squeeze. "Tell me why you used a gag."

"You can't figure it out for yourself. Jeez, woman."

"I'm not interested in what I think. I want to know what you're thinking." She tilts her head a bit. "Was it all revenge, or did you have some other plot in that clever mind?"

"Revenge? _Moi?_ " He gives her his best affronted glare.

"Oh yes. That little speech about leaving me there to go watch the game, that was nothing but payback for my putting a gag on you in our last session. Unless you tell me differently."

"I don't have to tell you anything, since you've got it all figured out." Greg frees his hand and moves away from her a little. "I need a beer." As the words leave his lips the power goes out. " _Shit._ "

"If you want a cold brew you'd better get one now," Gardener says; she's amused, damn her. "I'll call PSE&G to report the outage."

It takes a few minutes to get up and into the kitchen. It's dark, but he knows where the fridge is anyway. When he comes back with two beers Gardener has his phone in hand. She frowns down at it. "You have several voicemails here from some HR department."

"Nosy." He sets the bottles on the coffee table and swipes the phone from her. "Thought I deleted those."

"If it's your consult, they want paperwork from you." She picks up one of the beers. "You might look into hiring a personal assistant."

Greg dumps the phone on the coffee table and grabs the other beer. "Mind your own business."

"You are my business. And you still haven't answered my question. Why did you use a gag?"

He should have seen that coming; his woman is nothing if not tenacious. "I wanted to shut you up. Wish I had one now."

"Hmm, a partial truth at least." Gardener takes a long swallow of beer. "Beyond the need for an equal exchange, I think you're anxious about your new work setup. It's possible that means you're using the holiday and my actions as an excuse to push away your feelings."

"Oh balls," he scoffs, but that little tingle at the back of his neck tells him she's right. He's ignored the tightness in his gut and the moments of apprehension that have popped up with increasing frequency over the last week or so; it's nothing new, anytime he switches jobs or gets fired he feels the same thing, but this time it's been worse than usual. Still, it hasn't been hard to set the dread aside, with everything else that's gone on.

"Now tell me why you used the gag." Gardener sips her beer. Greg glares at her, exasperated by this egregious display of persistence.

"I just said I wanted to shut you up. Still do."

"You could have told me to remain silent and I would have obeyed, as you know well." She watches him in the firelight. "You felt a need to control someone."

"Maybe I did," he snaps, uncomfortable now. "So what? You agreed to it."

"That I did, and without a safe word. You didn't even ask for one."

Of course she'd throw that in his face. "I . . . I forgot."

Gardener nods. "I believe you. It's just interesting that you did." She's not angry or even upset, but Greg knows that expression. She won't let this go. "Why do you think you did that?"

"To make you ask stupid questions! I—I don't know!" He lurches to his feet and limps over to the fireplace. The room is still warm, but he feels a need to stay near a source of heat and light.

"Gregory." Gardener's voice is quiet. "Do you trust me?"

"Back to that again." He winces at the bitterness in his words.

"And we'll keep coming back to it, because you need to re-draw the lines and make sure things are the way you perceive them to be. It's all right, you have legitimate reasons to test someone's integrity. So—let's lay things out in simple terms. I trust you. Do you trust me?"

He thinks of her in his bed—their bed now, just as the four-poster in her apartment is theirs as well—bound and silenced, yet willing to obey without hesitation. "Yes."

"Good." She gets up and comes toward him, but stops a few feet away. "What do you think will happen if you tell me you're worried about this change in your life?"

He stares into the fire. "Don't know," he mutters, though that's a lie.

"Do you think I'd lecture you, demand certain rules be obeyed, expect you to do what I tell you to?"

"You said I need an assistant," he throws at her. "You're already making decisions for me."

"I suggested you look into the idea, but that decision is yours to make, not mine." Gardener comes over to stand by the fire. "It's all right to be apprehensive. It's also fine to tell me when you're worried. I'm a good listener, you know." She takes the last two steps and puts her arms around him, draws him in. "You don't have to do this by yourself. Maybe someday you'll finally figure that out," she offers him a slight smile. He stands in the circle of her embrace, much as he did the previous evening. To his astonishment he feels the same relief now as he did then.

"I've never done this before," he hears himself say. "Never . . . never worked outside a department or . . . or a hospital practice."

"There are pros and cons." Gardener rubs his back, slow and gentle. "The paperwork's a pain, but you can decide your own schedule. And you can have someone do your accounting and taxes, in fact it's better to have a CPA do them. I can give you some recommendations. The guy who does my accounts is reliable and he doesn't charge a fortune for quarterly reports."

Her matter-of-fact tone reassures him. Greg peers down at her. "You think you're so smart."

"I know I'm so smart." She rests her hands on his butt, cops a feel on both cheeks. "Let's go to bed."

"We just had sex a couple of hours ago," he points out.

"Beds can be used for more things than making love." He can hear the laughter in her soft voice. "We can put on an extra blanket so we don't get cold."

Gardener puts out the candles and banks the fire while he takes the empty beer bottles to the kitchen and brings back a flashlight. When she comes in he's already under the covers, but sits up when he sees she has a three-wick pillar candle in one hand and a plate piled with crackers and cheese and cookies in the other. "My wrist is bothering me, so you must be hurting more as well," she says, as she sets the candle on the night stand. "We might as well have a snack before taking some meds."

"Better hope I don't kick you out for dumping crumbs in the sheets," he says to mock her, but he munches on crackers and cheddar all the same as Gardener peels off her clothes and climbs in with him. Once she's settled she takes a gingersnap and eases into her pillows, her body warm and pliant against his; the night ahead doesn't look quite so uncomfortable now. Greg even takes his pills with some of the water she offers him from the carafe she keeps on her side of the bed. In the soft candlelight he can see she's tired, but she's relaxed at his side—content, that's the word. The knowledge is pleasant, try as he might to push it away. Maybe he doesn't push too hard. He's earned this, and so has she. They've been through a lot together over the last month in particular.

"What do you do the day after Thanksgiving?" she says, and takes another cookie.

"Sleep in and mock everyone who's out in bad weather, spending too much money on Christmas." He makes a cracker-cheese stacker.

"I don't know. Shopping might be fun."

"Fine, feel free. I'll stay home and you can pick up a pizza."

Gardener finishes the cookie. "We could do that. Or I could make a cassoulet." She stretches a bit. "This weather is perfect for it."

Greg's mouth waters at the thought. "We're out of salt pork."

"And we need garlic sausage too." She puts her hand on his arm, strokes his skin with a light, circular touch. "Let's go to Reading Terminal. We can have a late breakfast and buy some croissants for the weekend too. And that coffee we like. With caffeine this time."

"A bribe to get me out in public. Nice." But he doesn't really mind. The thought of shopping with her actually seems . . . doable. And that's as far as he'll go. "Can't have a cassoulet without some kind of fermented grape juice to go with it."

"I've got a bottle of Domaine Armand Rousseau that's been waiting for the right evening." The casual tone doesn't fool him. He peers at her in mild astonishment.

"You're willing to drop a thousand bucks on a bottle of Grand Cru burgundy and then have it with a _casserole_?"

"It'll be a really good casserole," she says, and offers him a cheeky smile. "Does that appease your puritanical streak?"

"Huh." He settles in next to her and brushes cracker crumbs from his chest. "No doubt we'll stop off at your accountant's office on this little shopping expedition. Not to mention a temp agency."

"If you want to." She sounds unconcerned, a little sleepy. "See how you feel in the morning."

"'kay," he says, more to himself than her. "Yeah . . . all right."

It's in the small hours when Greg is wakened by something—a noise. He lies there, somewhat muzzy and disoriented by the meds he's taken; at last it dawns on him that the power's back on. The click of the radiator brought him out of sleep. He stretches a bit, cautious as always not to disturb his damn leg, and turns his head. Dana lies curled up next to him, huddled under the blankets. In the soft candlelight he can see her hand on the pillow. Her slender fingers curve in a gentle arc, their grace inherent even relaxed in sleep. He remembers the feel of her touch on his face, his chest, his hips . . . Her love is manifest there, in the gentleness and respect she shows, yes—but also in the way she embraces all of him, as if he is something precious to her, something to cherish. No one has ever really done that before; even with Stacy sex was more recreational, not an overt statement of emotion or attitude. He never expected that anyway—but now he has it, and it amazes him to realize someone holds him dear, and necessary. It's frightening too, because she's invested in him to a large extent and if he hurts her, it'll go to the core. And he knows he'll hurt her, he's done it already. But she's agreed to this; she understands what she's taking on, for the most part. When he fucks up, she'll deal. It's wrong to know and depend on it, he understands that, but he's glad all the same. She won't expect him to be something he's not. And he'll do the same for her.

"Mmmm . . ." Dana peeks out of her nest. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Power's on." He moves closer, slides his hand over her hip as he eases in to spoon behind her. His leg gives a slight tremor, but subsides when he settles in.

"Shall I blow out the candles?"

"Leave 'em." He strokes her hair. "Go back to sleep."

She makes a little noise of assent and drifts off. He follows her in the golden, wavering light, unsure of the future, but perhaps ready at last to take a step forward to meet it.


End file.
